There are some days when one is entirely frustrated with one's own lack of perfection. Tis a brutal thing. Belike, the result of having somewhere in the recesses of un-living memory, the recollection of what it was like to have been a god, or worshipped as one, anyway.

It's the sense that all of your perceptions are somehow different, beautiful and amazing and not mortal. And there's something very descartes about that, but you won't know it for more than 4000 years, when the Kali Yuga is in full swing, and you are as mortal as the mud beneath the hovering feet of the Androgynous, the Perfect, and...

Oh, one fails, again.

<<agé chose>>

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